


It Must Be Earned

by Shinaka



Category: Odin Sphere
Genre: Angst, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinaka/pseuds/Shinaka
Summary: The bed is the focal point of a marriage according to the Aesir. Oswald and Gwendolyn on their marriage bed as seen at various points of their relationship in the "Odin Sphere" timeline.Part 3: The ReturnGwendolyn should be happy after giving the ring of Titrel to Odin. But she returns to the old castle as an exile once more.





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written this quickly in... forever. Wow.
> 
> Note: This takes place before Oswald presents the ring of Titrel to Gwendolyn.
> 
> Note 2: Upon second review of the fic, there's a slight continuity error in that Oswald says, "You are not an object" AFTER giving Gwendolyn the ring. However, the character dynamics are generally the same.

There is a man she does not know next to her on the bed. 

 

Of course, Gwendolyn knows _of_ him - he is the Shadow Knight, formerly the Vanir’s demon to control and to unleash on foes. She knows the rumors, whispered among her peo - no, the other Aesir, she thinks with a pang - that the Shadow Knight must have forged a contract with Hel’s denizens in order to achieve such inhuman heights in power. She knows that the Shadow Knight was given her hand in marriage, her dear sister’s spear, and this castle in exchange for slaying Wagner by her father ( _who gives his daughters away to war and politicking without a thought_ , the bluebird murmurs).

 

But she does not know this man.

  

She knows the traditions that husband and wife are bound to among the Aesir. There is a reason why dread pools deep in her belly, clings tightly, and threatens to make the contents of her dinner spill. At best, there might be love or something verging on tolerance between the two. At worst, even the children cannot be counted on for affection and love. All the same, the valkyrie’s wings will be cut and she will trade freedom to lie with her husband.

 

The Shadow Knight has not asked to cut her wings - yet. He has not asked to bed her - yet. He has not even touched her - yet.  

 

But she does not know this man.

 

(“You are not an object,” her mind replays. Gwendolyn’s stomach unclenches slightly. But she remembers the spell her father put on her and she again feels ill at once). 

  

She knows that the man across from her isn’t yet asleep. Try as he might, she knows full well what marks the intake of breath during slumber from a breath held tightly and then set to release slowly, slowly. Griselda - and Gwendolyn sucks in a breath that she knows that he can hear because he immediately stiffens - would do the same when she was little. After their mother had passed. A small bubble of weakness, so little tolerated in Aesir society, in the dark when her sister thought that no one, not even the little sister nearby, could hear. 

 

Griselda is not here.  

 

There is a man next to her instead.

  

“Gwendolyn.”

  

She thinks of staying silent. It is some time after they had laid to sleep. She knows that there are only a few things men want from their wives at this time. 

  

However, she knows what duty expects from her. Even if she has been banished, she knows how she should act toward a husband. Her father would want it this way and when has she ever refuse to fulfill his wishes?

 

She opens her mouth, prepares to say, “What is it, Oswald,” maybe even “What would you like me to do for you, Oswald?” Since waking up in this castle, she has girded herself for this moment. She grips her mother’s dress, her armor for this, and -

 

“Never mind. You are clearly trying to get some sleep. I shall bother you no more.”

 

She hears him turn on his side and then is still once more.

 

Only then does Gwendolyn allow herself to exhale, her fingers to loosen from the satin folds, and her eyes to close.

 

She truly does not know this man next to her.


	2. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow the ring of Titrel is now on her finger.
> 
> Gwendolyn cannot believe her good luck but the spell keeps complicating things for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this was a goddamn slog. The second half sprung up in less than a day. Funny how writing can work sometimes.
> 
> Also for the sake of making this fic work, let's just pretend that Gwendolyn spent the night with Oswald before giving the ring to daddy.

On her finger, it is a simple golden band that does not flash in the light of the bedside lamp but rather glows, warm to the eye. It is a beautiful ring that an uninformed bride would flush to receive and then let sit comfortably on her hand for years to come. 

 

As she lies on her side under the thick blankets, Gwendolyn silently twists the cool metal on her left ring finger between right forefinger and thumb. It does not cause her skin to itch or to prickle like a ring of power ought to. The sensation of metal moving against flesh is utterly mundane and that disturbs her more than anything else. 

 

This is the trinket her father covets above all. With it, the Cauldron can be activated and such power as can only be dreamed of will come to Ragnanival. Dominance over Erion will at last be at the Aesir’s feet. Her father’s wish - long held, long fought for - can be easily fulfilled with just this one ring.

 

A ring that has chosen to be given freely to her by Oswald, the man she has called enemy in the past but is now supposed to be her husband. A stroke of luck by way of grievous misfortune.

 

She thinks back to earlier, when the knight had presented Titrel to her. His large gloved hand, usually holding Belderiver, but now impossibly slipping on the piece of jewelry onto her finger. Her shock and realization as she beholds the ring, its significance and identity becoming clear all at once. (Bound as his wife through Titrel, the ridiculousness of it!) His eyes drinking her all in that makes her shy away. His surprisingly kind words of wanting to see her smile, of wanting to see her happy.

 

(For a moment, Gwendolyn allows the spell to take control and let her bask in warmth. Perhaps she is not as unfortunate as she thought she was. Few former valkyrie can boast of husbands obtaining wedding gifts from dragons or of even receiving such words and acknowledgment of their feelings. In the light, the ring seems to burn -)

 

There is a spell on her. 

 

Her eyes narrow. The hand that Titrel adorns turns into a fist.

 

It matters not the kind of man Oswald is. She never consented to this arrangement. Even if the spell was meant as a kindness by her father for saving Velvet, to help ease Gwendolyn into life as a subservient wife, she does not want love that contains but little substance behind it.

 

(With Gwendolyn's voice, the bluebird on the lamp speaks. “When has your father ever understood your desires?”

 

The woman grits her teeth and focuses all her might instead on revenge and a nearer target.)

 

Suddenly, footsteps from down the hallway to the bedroom. 

 

She thrusts her hands underneath the blankets and squeezes her eyes closed. In her haste, however, she does not blow out the candles and by the time she realizes Oswald is walking over to her side of the bed, she curses her forgetfulness and the man before her.

 

“Gwendolyn,” he whispers. She does not know why he must put such reverence in his voice whenever he utters her name. If she opens her eyes, she knows that she will see him look down at her as if in supplication, and she can neither understand the reason nor bear the guilt it inspires. 

 

She keeps her eyes closed, her fingers still resting on Titrel under the covers.

 

Oswald continues in a low voice. “I know not if you are truly asleep. You are usually very conscientious in your bedtime habits, however.” A light hiss of air and the faint light behind her eyes turns to darkness. “There, I have blown out the candles for you. Good night, Gwendolyn.”

 

There is a pause in which he does not say any more, yet he does not move from Gwendolyn’s side. Even though she cannot see him and the room is bathed completely in darkness, she wishes she can retreat further into the blankets. _It is only the spell that is making my heart beat faster_ , she repeats to herself. _It cannot be anything other than that._  


 

Finally, Oswald moves away and toward his side of the bed, footsteps quick and soft. Considerate. Scant seconds later, he is sitting on the feather mattress, lifting the covers so as to disturb her as little as possible, and then lying upon the pillows Myris had fluffed only this morning.

 

If she turns around and reaches out with her left hand, she can entwine her fingers with that of her husband’s. It would be easy. 

 

She cannot do it.

 

Instead, Gwendolyn holds the hand with Titrel, fingers skimming the band. She will give the ring to her father soon, somehow. He will applaud her fortune, her shrewdness, her piety.  _And_ , she trembles thinking it, _maybe he will be happy with me_. 

 

The man responsible for that wish coming true is nearby. He had given her the ring because he had “nothing else worthy” to give to her. Yet out of this unwanted marriage, Oswald had provided the means to the most dear thing she desires. And a way out of this.

 

“Good night, Oswald,” Gwendolyn allows herself to say aloud. If Oswald is surprised that his wife is awake, it does not show in the darkness.

 

“I wish you good night, too. May your sleep come swiftly and be filled with pleasant dreams, Gwendolyn,” the knight whispers.

 

They are such sweet words, even if they must come from her captor.


	3. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwendolyn should be happy after giving the ring of Titrel to Odin. But she returns to the old castle as an exile once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally supposed to cover up to and including the aftermath of Gwendolyn’s rescue of Oswald from Leventhan. But then Gwendolyn’s angst grew and grew, so now this story will now be in five parts instead of the originally planned four, whoops.

When Gwendolyn silently alights on the terrace, she is not surprised to find the balcony doors and the curtains open.

  

On a small wooden chair, Myris leans against one of its arms, Pooka frame uncomfortably tucked into fitful sleep. Like she used to do in Nebulapolis after Gwendolyn and her sister would come back breathless from sneaking out to glide among the shooting stars above the city at an hour all should be asleep. Although Myris would always wake up and fret about their safety - “You are both princesses, you must remember yourselves!” - she never spoke a word to their lord father about it. 

  

Gwendolyn did not understand why at first. But as she grew older, the weight of the crown atop her head became ever heavier with expectation, and the Aesir’s scrutiny more intense and unforgiving. She did not often see Griselda outside of official business, where family titles were stripped, replaced by military ranks and clipped tones. Their mother took ill and was often bedridden. The night trips turned contemplative and then into silent affairs. 

  

Once their mother died, they ended entirely. Only then did Gwendolyn understood that Myris must had seen what was to come.

  

Now her sister is no longer here. Instead of her father’s castle, they are in a run-down manor in a wild forest. Instead of her father being the head of the house, it is now the Shadow Kn - _Oswald_. 

 

When she had returned to Nebulapolis, she had intended to enjoy the fruits of her long awaited return to honor and her father’s good graces. The king would shower upon her the love and affection she had longed for and then the greatest happiness she could ever conceive of would swell and overwhelm her. That had been her greatest wish. When the ring of Titrel was comfortably within her father’s hands, she had believed it was coming true. 

  

She did not see herself coming back to the old castle, an exile once more, this time by her own hand. 

 

Before Gwendolyn can turn the memory of her discussion with her father over in her mind, however, the Pooka handmaiden rouses from sleep, eyes fluttering open. “Gwendolyn!”

 

She is quickly off the chair and wrapping her arms around the valkyrie’s hips. “How could you leave us without saying anything?! Did you know how worried we all were?” Her paws are shaking. With a pang, the warrior also notices the tears beginning to drip down Myris’ cheeks. 

 

“When you didn’t return after four days, we thought something horrible might have happened to you! But we had no way of knowing…” The handmaiden reaches for her eyes with the backs of her paws to wipe them dry. “On top of that, Oswald hasn’t returned either-"

 

Before she can catch herself, Gwendolyn’s shock escapes through her voice. “He’s not here?” 

  
_Oh._  

  

(“Didn’t he fight a dragon for you?” The bluebird sits atop the Pooka’s head. “He risked life and limb for _you._ ”)

  

Myris shakes her head, ears brushing against her mistress’ armor. (The bird flies away, disappears.) “Brom told me not to worry about him as he has been away for such long periods of time before.” Then she looks up at Gwendolyn. "But ’tis upsetting when both master and mistress are gone for a long period of time!"

 

“I-I am sorry,” the valkyrie says. Her head is beginning to pound. After the previous days spent traveling, fighting, and reeling from her father and now Myris’ words, she seeks silence.

  

Her handmaiden steps back at her mistress’ change of tone. “Gwendolyn?” 

 

“I promise that I will inform you of where I am going next time, Myris.” Gwendolyn feels faint. “I will also tell you on the morrow of where I have been these past several days. But,” she says as she turns toward the bed. Tonight will be the first night in the castle that she does not share a bed with Oswald. “I desire sleep now. Please forgive me."

  

The Pooka looks as if she wants to say something but stops and composes herself. The warrior swallows down her guilt and sadness long enough to wish Myris good night and to see her down the hall from the great doors of the bedroom.

 

Taking off her armor and pulling down her hair are laborious but distracting. But when she spies her mother’s dress hanging neatly from a hanger in the wardrobe, she is suddenly filled with the most urgent need to cry.

 

A long but short time ago, she had once put on that dress to please her father. She knew the war with the Vanir had been slowly but inevitably sapping her father’s energy. She had thought that he might have been touched, even pleased that his daughter was honoring the memory of the late Queen, taken too early from them. 

  

But her father does not remember this dress. 

  

He has not spoken more than three lines about Griselda since her passing.

 

He does not help his most cherished daughter escape execution.

  

Her father does not mourn the loss of his daughter to strange men because political goals are always, _always_ more important than family.  

 

Gwendolyn holds the dress against her, even as it still hangs from its bar. She presses her nose against it, tries to inhale any remnant of her mother’s perfume. (It was lavender, to help her mother sleep when the illness worsened and refused to let her rest properly.) She wonders if her mother had ever hoped for more than an abstemious display of affection from her lord husband. Now that she knows the possibility of affection in her father can extend past calling her “precious daughter” as if such words are to be rationed, she aches more than ever for her mother, who was not and had never been foremost in Odin’s heart. Like mother, like daughter.

  

For a time, she stands with her mother’s dress in her arms in the darkness of her bedroom, in the deeper shadow of the wardrobe.

 

But even though she has willingly left her homeland, she is still a valkyrie through and through. She must rest soon and build up her energy for the next day’s trials. Gwendolyn slowly pulls the dress over her head, smooth satin cool against her skin, and once the bodice settles into place, she steps over to the bed.

  

Oswald is not here tonight.

  

Her heart clenches at the sight of his side of the bed, made up but empty, and for once, she does not fight to repress it.

 

Oswald has fought the strongest of dragons – for her. He has procured the most precious of rings – for her. 

  

He has not asked to cut her wings. He has not asked to lie with her. He has not asked for a kiss. He does not even touch his wife when they are in bed. And even if Gwendolyn informs him of his rights, she knows that he will not exercise them. He says that she is not an object, even though by the customs of the Aesir, she _is_. Even though he can crush all possible escape or dissent with a word or a well-sharpened blade, he does not. Chooses not to. 

 

He has been nothing but kind and courteous to her. He says that he wants only for her to be _happy_.

 

Gwendolyn has been expected to be a warrior like her sister. A leader like her sister. A princess like her sister. There have been many ideas from her family and the Aesir for how she should think and conduct herself. 

  

But none of their desires for her have ever included Gwendolyn’s own wishes. Not even her own father's.

 

There is a spell on her. She has tried to resist it in the name of her father. She has taken Oswald's special gift and brought it to Odin to turn the war in the Aesir’s favor.

  

But there is nothing in Nebulapolis for her anymore. 

 

There is little profit in going against the inevitable result.

 

As she lies down on the bed and pulls the covers over herself, she cannot help but skim her fingers along where Oswald's body would lay. 

 

_You are a good man_ , she thinks. _You are what I have now._


End file.
